Someone Like You
by siriusondrun
Summary: Dave repays an owed favor. Companion piece to "Use Somebody" for LizzyPoodle.


**A/N: For LizzyPoodle, because she asked for more Santofsky. :)**

**Disclaimer: Glee is not mine.**

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><p>Santana had called him eight times today. Each time she'd either hung up when he answered or left single huffed swearwords in Spanish on his voicemail if he didn't. Dave stared at his phone, torn between being perplexed and being pissed off. This was weird, even for Santana and the strain of so many botched calls was wearing out his cell phone battery and his nerves. He shoved his feet into the first pair of shoes he saw and picked his car keys off his bureau. Whatever her problem was with him today, he was better off hearing it in person than waiting to hear it from someone else.<p>

At first he thought no one was home as he slid the spare key back into the false front piece built into the Lopez's' doorframe. The small condo was dark and quiet, without the usual chatter of Santana's younger siblings watching Spongebob in the front room or her mother alternating between home office and kitchen. Dave closed the door behind him and slipped his sneakers off in the entryway, padding nervously through the too-still house.

"Tana?" he said cautiously. "You here?"

A hum that had been emanating from down the hall where the bedrooms were got louder, turning into recognizable music. It was "Valerie," Dave thought, one of Santana's favorite songs. No one else in the house listened to that kind of music as far as Dave knew; he wondered if it was a confirmation of her presence or an invitation for him to fuck off. He put his hands in his pockets and slouched down the hall to Santana's room.

He knocked as he entered, wincing against the wave of music that greeted him. There was a veritable mountain of wadded-up tissues overflowing the garbage can next to Santana's bed and several empty bedraggled boxes were stacked on her bedside bureau. Santana herself was bundled up in her comforter with her iHome next to her cracked up all the way. Her face was botchy and raw-looking, bloodshot red-rimmed eyes glowering from under stringy hair. Dave stared. Santana was _crying_, he thought numbly as she snuffled against the sleeve of her pullover. He supposed that explained her phone messages, but was baffled nonetheless.

"Tana, what's wrong?" he asked, taking a hesitant step towards the bed. She scowled harder, chin jutting out at him.

"The fuck to you want?" she asked. The words were harsh, but her voice was so brittle they didn't carry the usual whip-sharp sting.

"I want to know why you've been calling me all day and hanging up," Dave said. He hazarded another long step forward and settled on the edge of her mattress. "And why are you, you know, crying?"

Santana let out a harsh sigh, hands pulling her comforter into a tighter ball around her. "She was my idol," she said in a small, reverent voice Dave had never heard out of her. "Complete no-holds-barred head bitch in charge, took shit from no one. Nothing she wasn't going to do no matter what anyone said to her. And she's…" Santana pressed her lips tightly together, shaking her head as she hiccupped a sob.

Dave felt a little lost. "Who?"

"Amy-fuckin-Winehouse," Santana snapped, jabbing a finger at her stereo. "She's dead, they found her this morning. She's…she's dead." The anger in her voice evaporated as Santana once again dissolved into trembling, wracking tears.

"God, Tana." Ignoring her flailing attempts to stop him, Dave reached out and pulled her into a tight hug. Santana wriggled listlessly for a moment in protest but slowly relaxed into him, burying her face in his shoulder as she howled. Dave held her tightly, feeling a little like he was trying to hold her together. He didn't really know what else he could do; he was always the first one to freeze up in useless discomfort when people cried and this was _Santana_. She was always cuttingly, brilliantly composed, more force of nature than human. If he'd been asked five minutes ago he would have said he wasn't sure she actually could cry. But he supposed it was the least he could do to hold her thought the sobbing, muttering soothing nonsense and patting her back.

When at last the playlist of Winehouse had restarted itself and Santana's tears had dried into hiccups and nose-blowings Dave let her go. "Thanks," Santana muttered, pulling the blanket back around herself and trying to settle in.

Dave didn't feel like she should have to stay here and burrow into herself again, though. He stood and held out a hand. Santana stared at him, her signature bitch-brow clicking into place.

"What?"

"C'mon. I wanna take you out," Dave said. "Just Breadstix, nothing huge," he added when Santana glanced askance down at her uncharacteristically frumpy clothes. She shot him a look, disdainfully skeptical. "I'll let you send your plate back as many times as you want," Dave said, wheedling and teasing all at once.

That finally gained a half-laugh from Santana, who waffled a moment longer before taking Dave's hand and allowing him to haul her up. "Lemme get real pants on and we can go," she said, her posture a little closer to her normal self. She looked at him as if considering something, then launched forward and gave a brief but fiercely tight hug. She patted him once on the shoulder as she pulled away, seeming to try for the no-contact contact of a bro-hug. Dave grinned and jerked his head once in a silent affirmative. Girl, force of nature or otherwise, he was pretty sure she counted as a bro. She seemed to accept this silent declaration, shooing him out of her room so she could change but sliding her hand into his as they walked out the door.

Dave entwined their fingers, more out of habit, and wondered if it consoled her as much as it did him. The world was a shitty place right now, full of chickenshit prom kings and fallen idols, but maybe the two of them had a chance at making it.


End file.
